Hangover
by stress
Summary: otherwise known as: See Spot Run. In which Spot wakes up to find himself in a dress and Race is reminded that what happens in Brooklyn, stays in Brooklyn. COMPLETE.
1. In Which Spot is in a Dress

**Disclaimer: **The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.

* * *

**Hangover  
**or_ see spot run_

* * *

Despite his diminutive size and pretty boy good looks, Spot Conlon was considered to be one of the most feared newsboys in the whole of New York. He could run faster, hit harder and shoot with dead-on accuracy better than any of the boys he lorded over in Brooklyn. He was more than feared, even—he was respected. Not a single one of his newsies would ever think of crossing him. They would rather take a short walk and a long drop into the East River than turn on their leader… it amounted to the same thing in the end, after all.

Of course, that wasn't the _only_ reputation Spot had. Ask any of the girls—working girls, society girls, he wasn't picky—who had fallen for those steely eyes and that come hither smirk, and you would find out that not only was he the head of the Brooklyn newsies, but he was one hell of a heartbreaker, too.

That's the funny thing about the ladies he spurned. They didn't think of him the way the other boys did so, when the opportunity presented itself, two particular girls—Cinder Harrow and her unlikely girlfriend, Miss Amelia Wilkins—were not intimidated by his one reputation; they were bolstered by the other.

Some say their laughter that night echoed through even the darkest of Brooklyn's alleyways. Others say that you could hear the roar of Spot's anger on the Manhattan side of the bridge. But they were wrong. Nothing even happened _that_ night.

The next morning, on the other hand…

* * *

Because of his diminutive size and his good old-fashioned Irish genes, Spot Conlon was considered to be a lightweight when it came to a night out with the fellas—though not a one of them would ever dare call him out on that, of course. Smart enough to know his own limits, he preferred to sit back, kick his heels up and watch his boys make complete and utter asses of themselves.

But not that night. Maybe it was the good headline that morning and a pocketful of hard-earned pennies that made him reckless, or the pretty redhead who kept smiling his way, but he matched each of his boys drink for drink. The rest of the night passed him by in a blur, a dark haze that he suspected he wouldn't remember when morning came.

He was right.

Spot woke up the next morning disoriented and in pain—though, of course, he would never admit to that, either. His head was pounding a staccato beat and his mouth tasted as if he had eaten an old sock for supper. He swallowed a few times, desperate to get the stale, dry taste out of his mouth before beginning in the unfortunate task of trying to open his eyes and start living down his monstrous hangover.

There was a good chance, he decided, that he might've overdone himself last night.

It took him a couple of tries, his eyes gummed down as they were, before he could take stock of his surroundings. Spot prided himself on knowing every inch of Brooklyn the way he knew the back of his hand, but he didn't quite recognize where he was at first—disoriented, remember? After a minute or two, he finally realized with a knowing smirk precisely what part of town he was in, including the street name he was currently lying flat on his back on: Orange Street, on the edge of Brooklyn Heights, a couple of blocks over from the lodging house he should have been sleeping in.

He had one question, though: Just what was he doing there?

Actually, make that two questions: Just how had he gotten there?

And then, finally, a third:

Why could he feel the morning breeze on his knees?

* * *

Despite his diminutive size and probably because of his big mouth, none of the fellas in Brooklyn ever felt bad about taking each and every last penny Racetrack Higgins had. Some point after discovering the hard luck gambler couldn't bluff worth a damn they decided it was better for him to lose his money to them over blowing it down at the track. They were doing him a favor, after all. At least he didn't have to hitch a trolley over to Sheepshead to go home broke.

There was something else you could say about the bummers who lived in Brooklyn. They weren't above taking every last damn cent he had, but at least they didn't kick a fella when he was down. Grinning a bit more than they should have at his expense, the boys at the Brooklyn Lodging House offered to put him up for the night, free of charge. And Race, embarrassed and broke and a bit drunker than he would have liked, had taken them up on that offer.

When he woke up, his last full cigar was gone, as well as the last of his good humor. Like a dog with his tail between his legs, he just wanted to make it back across the Brooklyn Bridge with his trousers and his shirt still on his back. The way the Brooklyners had rolled him, he considered himself lucky to be getting out with that much.

A careful sort of fellow when it came to his tobacco, Race always made sure to keep the spare ends of a near-spent cigar tucked safely inside his vest pocket, just in case. With a what-can-you-do shrug, he placed the soggy bit in between his teeth but didn't light it yet. Just the feeling of the stub clamped between his crooked teeth was good enough for now.

Lost in his thoughts, wondering how he was going to explain to Cowboy and the others how he'd managed to leave Brooklyn broker than when he arrived _again, _Race didn't realize that he'd turned the wrong way until it took him longer to get to the mouth of the bridge than it should've.

He found himself on the corner of Henry and Orange, shook his head once, and started down Orange. It hadn't been so long since he lived in Brooklyn that he couldn't find his way back to the bridge but something—someone, perhaps—caught his attention on the far corner.

Race rubbed his eyes, anxious teeth chomping on the stale stub of the cigar, before trying to get a better look. It was a person, he was pretty sure, and he thought it was a girl. By all rights, it _ought_ to be a girl. There was no denying the dress, after all. But the hair was short—too short—and there was something about the way the person was groaning and rubbing their forehead that struck him as familiar.

Then again, it might've been the cane and the slingshot lying haphazardly at their feet that might've tipped him off...

"Spot?"

"Racetrack? Race… unh... that you over there?"

Huh. So it _was _Spot.

Spot… dressed as a girl.

Spot… in a _dress_.

It took everything Race had, and then some, to keep his laughter back; as it was, he very nearly swallowed his unlit cigar. Just then he didn't know if he was the luckiest bastard alive—or the poorest schmuck who'd ever lived—to have been the one to catch Spot Conlon, hung over and in a dress.

It was mainly the part about good old Brooklyn himself being in a dress the made him want to snicker.

* * *

**End Note**: In the same vein of Lord of the Flies (and follow on the heels of Jack), I decided to write this three-part short story about Spot, Race and what happens after the fun night of drinking has passed. Keep it tuned for what happens next!


	2. In Which Spot Demands Trousers

**Disclaimer: **The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.

* * *

**Hangover  
**or_ see spot run_

* * *

It took everything Race had, and then some, to keep his laughter back; as it was, he very nearly swallowed his unlit cigar. Just then he didn't know if he was the luckiest bastard alive—or the poorest schmuck who'd ever lived—to have been the one to catch Spot Conlon, hung over and in a dress.

It was mainly the part about good old Brooklyn himself being in a dress the made him want to snicker.

In the few seconds that passed between him stumbling on a hung over Spot Conlon—in a dress, no less!—and the snorts of laughter he couldn't keep back any longer, Racetrack let his thoughts drift back and return to the past.

By his reckoning he'd known Spot for at least seven years now, ever since they met in a Brooklyn back alley and formed a solid camaraderie over a stolen piece of stale bread. Both small, undersized and underfed, each was too frightened and too alone to share their iffy childhoods with anyone other than a kid just like him. Together they were children of the street who took to hustling and gambling like ducks to water, all the while trying to sell an honest paper when they could.

Spot Conlon and Racetrack Higgins were boyhood chums that stuck together, through Spot's rapid rise up the ranks of the rough and tumble Brooklyn newsies to Race's decision to swap Brooklyn for Manhattan and the countless new marks he hoped to hustle over the bridge—even if it was Race who got suckered into looking after the boys under the unofficial leadership of Jack Kelly. Still, through it all, thick and thin, Spot and Race stayed pals.

A friendship forged on the mean New York streets, they hadn't let a bridge come between them. But a dress… Race shook his head, whistling under his breath as Spot groaned out loud and pulled himself up to rest on his elbows. In dire need of his smoke, a quick hand lit his cigar and he shrugged his shoulders as he inhaled. Walking around Brooklyn in a dress… he wasn't sure he could still be buddies with a mook like that.

And it wasn't even a particularly nice dress, either. If a fella was going to go queer and get all dolled up like a dame, the least he could do was follow the fashions and find a color that brought out his eyes. Spot's dress was a faded green and white gingham dress that was cut too small and tied too tight. It had certainly seen better days, Racetrack decided, and it didn't flatter poor Spot in the least.

Spot was still groaning and he scowled when Race's rather loud snorts reverberated through his pounding head. He didn't really see what so funny, or why Race was looking at him like that when he laughed. Over the years Race had seen him drunk enough plenty of times before and he was an old hat at hangovers himself. What the heck was he laughing for? A good friend would give him a hand and a splash of cold water, not do his best to make it worse.

Angry at himself for getting in over his head—he still didn't have any clue how he ended up on Orange Street—and pretty pissed that his so-called pal was still across the way, yukking it up, he shielded his eyes against the blindingly bright sun and snapped, "What's so damn funny?"

Despite the way his voice sounded as scratchy as sandpaper, and he groaned for a third time as he tried to climb hesitantly to his feet, there was enough of an order in his demand that Race found himself choking back his laughs. Seeing how Spot was still covering his eyes with a filthy hand, and he was swaying a bit as he moved, Race was starting to feel bad for his friend. It must've been some night for him to have ended up in a dress. As he hurried across the street and offered Spot a stout shoulder to lean on, he vaguely regretted running out of money as quickly as he did. He obviously missed the best part of the shindig.

Stubborn and proud, Spot refused Race's helping hand; instead, he gave a shaky shove against Race's shoulder with his own. "No thanks, _pal_. Leave a fella to rot, why don't you?"

Race couldn't help himself—the words were out before he knew it. "A fella sure, but I'd never turn my back on a lady in aid."

Spot, who'd been busy trying to rub an eyeful of Brooklyn grit out, stopped moving his hand immediately. "A _what_?"

Race snickered, ashing his cigar absently as he moved out of range of Spot's fists. "Would you prefer damsel in distress?"

"Higgins," Spot snarled, before grimacing. His hangover-induced headache hurt no less now that he was right-side up. "You got three seconds to explain that crack before I decide to soak ya. And I'd do it, too. You know I would."

"But you might muss up your pretty dress if you start fightin' me," Race teased, taking another step back as he did. Just in case, you know.

"My _what_?"

Racetrack made sure to keep a good bit of distance between him and Spot before nodding and gesturing at Spot's bare knees with his stub of a cigar. "That."

Finally coming out from under the haze of a heavy night of drinking cheap whiskey, Spot followed the direction of the other boy's point. For a moment he could hardly believe what he was seeing. There was no way his head was really connected to this body, was there? But then he recognized the razor-thin scar that snaked up his naked leg—and those knobby knees were pretty darn familiar—and he had to admit that it was him alright.

Him… in a dress.

The realization was a sobering one. There was no room for him to enjoy his hangover when he was too busy stammering and clenching his fists in sudden fury. He saw red, the angry buzz just managing to drown out his pounding headache.

"How did… _who_ did…" He was sputtering, his bloodshot, watery eyes staring wildly about him. Shaking ever so noticeably, he cried out, "I don't care! I'm gonna kill whoever done this to me!"

Considering Spot's ire seemed directed towards someone else, Race decided it was time to get back at Spot. He wasn't quite sure what he was getting his old friend back for but he wasn't about to waste this golden opportunity. Not when he was stone broke and suffering from a bit of a hangover himself.

"Here," he said, grinning so widely that his crooked teeth nearly stuck out, "I'll cross my fingers for ya, Spot. You… you just keep those legs of yours crossed."

"Race…"

Race wasn't so amused that he didn't hear the unsaid threat. "I'm just kiddin'." He took one short drag on his rapidly dwindling cigar, his chapped lips curling behind the puff of smoke. "Don't go twistin' your knickers in a knot."

"Higgins, I'm warnin' you'se."

"Sorry, Spot. That was the last one. Promise."

"It better be," Spot muttered, rubbing his dirty hands over the lengths of his face. Confronted with the horrible truth that he was trapped in a dress, he already had his mind fast at work. As he liked to remind others, he had a brain and not just half of one. There was no way for him to get out of this mess alone and here was his old pal, Race. He needed him—and, if it wasn't for a sudden rush of desperation, he might've just been a little suspicious about that.

Blame it on the alcohol. Or the dress, even. Spot Conlon just wasn't thinking straight.

Trying to remain calm despite his instincts to jump out of the frilly, girly dress, Spot beckoned Race closer to him. The other boy—wary of Spot's infamous temper and entirely aware that he'd gotten off at least three cheap shots already without any hint of a retaliation—met him on Orange Street somewhat reluctantly.

"Yeah?"

"Listen, I need your help."

It never even occurred to Racetrack to just say no. As funny at it all was, he knew he couldn't leave it up to Spot to get himself out of a mess this big. "Sure thing."

"I'm gonna need to get outta this… this—"

"Dress?"

"Shut it," Spot snapped, just about growling under his breath. He'd wanted to be nice to Racetrack so that Race would help him without an asking price, but the other boy—or maybe it was the way he could feel his knees knocking together—made it impossible for him to be pleasant.

Shaking his head gingerly, doing his best not to upset his ever-present headache, Spot tried again. "I mean, yeah. Outta one of those."

"Ya want I should go find you some pants? I could get some from Poplar Street and be back real quick."

This time, when Spot shook his head, it didn't matter if it made the pounding worse. He was that adamant.

"I ain't stayin' here alone like this. I'll go with you."

"In your dress?"

It wasn't easy for him to remember why Spot was considered to be so damn intimidating when he was all dolled up like he was. Sure, the way his hands itched to reach for his cane and clobber Race over the head made him a little nervous but he couldn't help it. A smart ass, born and bred, Race was only keeping his wisecracks to a minimum because of the history the two of them shared. Heaven forbid it was one of the Delancey brothers he found on the street in a dress…

Spot wasn't appreciative of Race's jokes or repeated reminders. Very quickly losing the little patience he had left, he reached his hand out. "Gimme your trousers, Race."

"What? No!"

"Gimme your pants, Higgins. They might be a little short, but I'll manage."

It was Racetrack's turn to shake his head defiantly. One hand holding tight to his waistband, the other outstretched as if warding Spot off with the pungent smoke of his stale cigar, Race argued, "Uh-huh, no way." He glanced over his shoulder, looking back at the direction he came. "Like I said, I'll run back to the lodging house, fetch ya some clothes, but…"

Race's refusal trailed to a close right there. It was pointless to continue—Spot wasn't even listening to him anymore. He was too busy shielding his eyes and glaring behind him down the street.

"Did ya hear that?"

"Hear what? I didn't hear nothing."

"It came from over there. I think… I think I hear snickerin'."

Race wondered if maybe the drink had made Spot paranoid. Then again, if he woke up on the street in a dress, he'd be pretty darn paranoid himself. And since there was no denying the fact that Spot _was_ currently wearing a dress, he couldn't honestly tell the other boy that no one was snickering at him. Hell, Race was just snickering at him a few moments ago!

Still, it was worth a shot.

"I don't… wait a minute. Do me a favor and turn back around again, would ya?"

"What, you want to watch the dress twirl, Higgins?" Spot asked dryly, for once doing what was asked of him.

"You wish," Race muttered, tossing his spent cigar to the dirt before reaching his free hand out. There was a folded square of paper pinned neatly to the back of Spot's dress. Not really caring what happened to the pin after Spot's last remark, he quickly plucked it off. "Look what I got here."

Without so much as a thank you, Spot spun back around—to Race's horror it really did twirl—and snatched the square right out from beneath Racetrack's stubby, ink-stained fingers. It was quite obviously a note, a message of some kind left behind for Spot.

Not, Race thought smartly to himself, that any other message could say more than the act of dumping Spot Conlon, hung over and in a dress, on the corner of Orange and Henry had already said.


	3. In Which Spot Gets Flashed

**Disclaimer:** The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.

* * *

**Hangover  
**or_ see spot run_

* * *

The note that had been pinned to the back of the green and white gingham dress was short and to the point.

_You want them? We got them._

* * *

Racetrack Higgins didn't know what was queerer about the note he plucked off of Spot's back: the penmanship or the address scrawled neatly underneath. Despite the way it read, almost like one of them—one of the newsies—was doing the writing, the simple lines were written in such a fancy, frilly hand that the culprit, in his opinion, just had to be a girl. And an educated girl to boot… even if the written language did speak like a taunting guttersnipe.

Then there was the address. Not too far away from the street corner where Race found Spot, hung over and in a dress, he couldn't figure what anyone would be doing over in that part of Brooklyn. An area full of factories and warehouses, it wasn't the sort of place that he would pick for a rumble.

Which, of course, brought him back to his first concern. What sort of girl—if it _was_ a girl—would challenge Spot Conlon like that? Well, he thought to himself, at least he thought he understood the reasoning behind the dress then…

Spot, entirely convinced that some guy—because he pointblank refused to listen to Race that it could be a girl—was out to get him, hadn't stopped to change out of the too-tight, too-short girlish attire. After ripping the note out of Race's pudgy hand, reading the dare and the address for himself, nothing short of a pair of handcuffs on his wrists and a stint in the refuge could have stopped him from setting off.

With a steely glint in his still bloodshot eyes and a determined scowl splitting his dusty face, Spot was already off and running. He took back ways, of course, but that was to be expected. He was Spot Conlon, after all—Spot Conlon even if he was in a dress!—and he refused to let anyone make a monkey—or a _girl_—out of him.

Racetrack was torn between just wanting to head back into Manhattan to sleep off his night and not wanting to miss this confrontation. In the end, he decided it would be worth it to follow Spot but, wary of his old pal's legendary temper and not quite wanting to be seen with a dress-wearing pansy either, he followed a good couple of steps behind.

Surprisingly, the pair of them—even if one of the two was pretending he'd never seen the other boy before in his life—made it to their given destination without too many whistles or catcalls slowing them down. Though just one would've been enough to set Spot off initially, he was so intent on finding out who did this to him that he barely paid attention to anything but the street names.

When they finally arrived, Race wasn't too surprised to find that the address led them to an abandoned warehouse on the corner. No light shone from any of the man darkened windows. It was entirely empty. There wasn't a single person in sight. The building was old and neglected, its façade faded and forgotten. A long flagpole hung over a boarded up entryway, a story up; a tattered flag hung limply on it, fluttering in the wind.

But the flag wasn't the only thing hanging from the pole. A small rucksack, neatly darned, cleaned and filled with something Race couldn't make out from his place on the ground, was slipped over the knobbed edge of the pole and hung mockingly up above.

It didn't take seeing what was inside of the bag for Race to have a sinking suspicion that he knew what was stashed just out of their reach.

"Um, Spot, ain't that your…"

Spot followed the point of Racetrack's finger until his searching eyes landed on the sack hanging off the edge of the flagpole. He wasn't quite sure what it was he was looking at… until he recognized one faded red suspender draped curiously over the side. And then he knew.

"My clothes! Damn it!" Stamping his feet, waving his hands wildly in the air, Spot seemed to just lose it at last. "Who did this? Come out and face me like a man! I'll soak ya!"

Race wondered if he should try to run his theory by Spot again before deciding against it. Then again, who knows? It might just be funnier if he was right all along and Spot had no idea that a girl had done this to him. It did seem like a wily, girly trick. Race almost wished he'd thought of it himself.

When no one arrived in answer to his summons, Spot got angrier and Racetrack realized that he was the only one around for Spot to take his anger out on. And Spot hadn't yet gotten him back for Race getting Spot back earlier. Sometimes, he decided, it was a curse to have such a smart mouth.

But at least he had a smart brain to go along with it. His brain hard at work, Race knew that he had to get Spot fixated on something else besides revenge. Getting him out of the dress and into a pair of real trousers seemed like a good idea, too. A real win-win—

—until Race noticed just how_ high_ up the clothes were stashed.

He grimaced, though there was a really good chance he was fighting back an amused grin. It wasn't bad enough that someone had managed to strip him out of his clothes and put him into this dress. Whoever did this to Spot then had to go and show off how short he was next.

Obviously not in the mood to have his height knocked, he glanced up at the bag, over at Race and the back at the bag. He had a brain too, and not just half of one. Squatting down slightly to secure his stance, he folded his fingers until he had created a foothold.

"Here," he said to Race. "Step in my hands. I'll hoist ya up and you can get the bag."

It was one thing to know that Spot was a strong guy. It was another to see how twig-thin his arms were and to wonder just how in the world something so small could lift him up that high. Now, maybe if it was Mush offering to hold him up in the air… but Spot?

Race shook his head. "Nuh-uh, Spot, no way. Why don't ya let _me _lift _you _up and then _you _can get your own clothes."

"Can't do that. It's gotta be you."

"Why me?"

"'Cause I'm sure as hell not gonna let ya get a peek up this damn dress."

"Oh." Race nodded thoughtfully. "Ya got a point there."

Spot formed a foothold with his hand again. "Up you get." There was the first sign Race had seen all morning of the old Spot Conlon smirk dancing across his face as he raised his eyebrows. "Don't worry. I'll try not to drop ya."

Though Spot's words were less than assuring, Race wasn't sure if he really had a choice. So, sighing a bit, he braced his weight on Spot's shoulders before hesitantly putting his boot in Spot's hands. With a huff and a bit of a push from Spot, he swung up his other foot until he was stepping lightly on Spot's shoulder. At this height, he was only a few inches underneath the swaying bag of pilfered clothes.

It was just as the tips of Racetrack's stubby fingers grabbed hold of the bag and he had just managed to slip it off the flagpole when it happened. Two girls—a blonde with her hair done up in prim curls and a dark-haired scoundrel who looked as tough as the streets—suddenly appeared in one of the darkened windows… right at the level of the flagpole.

"Say cheese, boys!"

It was a perfect vantage point to see Spot in his dress, holding up a wobbly Race in his cupped hands. The flash was so sudden and unexpected—not to mention _bright_—that it took the two boys by surprise. Race was blinded by the flashbulb and he tottered; Spot was spooked and he let go of Race's foot, remembering himself just in time to catch Race before he hit the dirt.

Caught in a basket catch, Race landed bridal style—he'd forgotten how to breathe in the split second that he tumbled and he had one thought: _Spot really _is _strong—_before Spot realized what a compromising position they were in. Without so much as a word or a warning, he promptly let Race drop the rest of the way to the ground.

Racetrack landed with a muffled "oof" as he landed on his back but he didn't mind the short fall as much as if Spot hadn't caught him at all. And, since he managed to bring that darn bag of clothes with him, at least he would never, ever have to do that again.

And, of course, Spot owned him a really big one now…

Spot, on the other hand, had other worries on his mind apart from Race—like the two girls who had just snapped a photograph of him in a dress.

"Dames," he growled, before raising both his voice and his fist angrily. "Goddamn _dames_!"

Meanwhile, in Manhattan, Jack Kelly lifted up one ink-stained hand in order to silence his friend David Jacobs, the Walking Mouth. Cocking his head to the side, screwing his eyes up in concentration, David fell silent as he watched the urban cowboy curiously.

When Jack shook his head once before slouching back up against the brick building he was leaning on, David glanced over his shoulder. Nothing was there and he frowned. "What?"

"Nothing," Jack replied, shrugging his shoulders. "Just thought I heard Spot hollerin' for a second there."

Because, when they said that you could hear Spot's yell all the way across the bridge the night before, they were wrong. But that morning…

* * *

Despite being bad tempered and one-upped by a pair of girls he once two-timed, Spot Conlon regrettably lived by one rule: you could never lay a hand on a dame. Ever. No matter how much she deserved it. And, oh boy, did he feel like Cinder Harrow and Amelia Wilkins deserved it.

But what could he do? He'd gotten himself into this mess thanks to too many shots of Irish whiskey and—with Racetrack Higgins' begrudging help—he'd gotten himself out of it, too. He had his clothes back now. So what if he couldn't get his revenge?

With their peals of laughter ringing in his ears, Spot held his hand out. Race gave him the bundle of clothes wordlessly; he was already working hard no to let a single snicker pass through his lips. Then, tucking the hard won bundle under his arm, Spot held his hand out again and offered it to Race. Smartly, Race still kept silent as he allowed Spot to return the favor by helping him to his feet this time.

Even if it was because of Spot that Race had found himself on his rear in the first place…

Then, proudly stalking off as if the whole event hadn't ruffled him in the least, Spot Conlon went off in search of an empty side street where he could finally get out of that horrible dress.

Racetrack waited for him outside of the secluded alley Spot had found. His back to the semi-dark opening, he only turned around when Spot called his name. Holding the edge of the dress out with only his thumb and his forefinger, keeping it away from him like it carried the plague, Spot nodded at it curtly.

"You got a match?" he asked pointedly.

The material caught fire immediately. The two boys stood around it in silence, basking in the subtle flames and watching the gingham dress burn. And then Spot cleared his throat.

"Race?"

"Yeah, Spot?"

"I shouldn't have to…"

"I know, Spot, I know. What happens in Brooklyn, stays in Brooklyn."

"You're a good man, Race."

"And that was a nice dress."

"Don't push it, Race."

"Gotcha, Spot."

* * *

**End Note:** Well, that's that. A very strange morning in the life of Spot Conlon and Racetrack Higgins. Don't ask me where this came from because, yeah, I got nothing. Except a very warped sense of humor, of course ;) I've been meaning to just finish this and because of both NaNoWriMo creeping up on me and a small internet break this weekend for my upcoming birthday (on Saturday, woot!), I thought I would get this out of the way before going back to the Pigeon and O:CLAK. Hope you liked it (and to the Spot fangirls: hey, he had it coming.)

_- stress, 09.30.09_


End file.
